


The Handler

by waywardrose



Category: BlacKkKlansman (2018)
Genre: Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Child sex-trafficking mention, Don’t copy to another site, Drugs, F/M, Fights, Guns, Jealousy, Sexism, Sexist Language, Threats of Rape/Non-Con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-09-26 17:04:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20393146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywardrose/pseuds/waywardrose
Summary: You propped your cowboy boot on the table edge and took a long drink of beer. No one sitting at the table with you paid your rudeness any mind. In fact, Johnny Claiborne promptly placed his callused hand on your bare knee.





	The Handler

**Author's Note:**

> Anon1: how about F in the fluff alphabet with flip (I’m thinking what happens after 🤭) but also anything you write with flip is wonderful so  
Anon2: Hello! Would you do Prompt J with Flip please? I love your blog!!
> 
> You two sweethearts are so very generous. Thank you! I have to apologize for the unfluffiness of this fic. I had a scrappy sort of dream, and it inspired this.
> 
> Please note, Flip is a good man. He doesn’t say or do anything with cruel intentions. Still, heed the tags despite him not being problematic here.
> 
> **Fight** \- _Would they be easy to forgive their s/o? How are they fighting?_  
**Jealousy** \- _Do they get jealous easily? How do they deal with it?_
> 
> Prompt from the [Fluff Alphabet](https://the-wayward-rose.tumblr.com/post/186447745297/fluff-alphabet)

You propped your cowboy boot on the table edge and took a long drink of beer. No one sitting at the table with you paid your rudeness any mind. In fact, Johnny Claiborne promptly placed his callused hand on your bare knee. He’d taken a liking to you over the past six-plus weeks of this undercover investigation. You hadn’t encouraged him, but you hadn’t spurned him either.

Detective Flip Zimmerman, your handler on the case, didn’t like that. He also didn’t like that you wore short cut-offs, but you had a feeling it wasn’t because he didn’t like the look. You’d seen the way he watched you. He was respectful and professional—never said anything crude. However, you recognized that look in men.

And from him, you didn’t mind it.

You hoped the mic hidden in the shaft of your boot would capture the conversation going on around the table. You’d gotten the small charter of the Bandidos to accept you as a ‘hang-around bitch’ by helping them avoid police check-points and raids. You’d also supplied them with a couple of kilos of coke they had run to Denver.

In your short time with the Bandidos, you’d uncovered they ran drugs, guns, and kids. You didn’t think any of them were pedos, but you wouldn’t put it past them. Needless to say, it was a difficult job. It was hard to compartmentalize.

Which was even harder to do when you knew Zimmerman was listening from outside Peg’s Tavern and Pool.

The jukebox at Peg’s wasn’t too loud and the clack of the billiard tables didn’t interrupt the conversation—which was good for recording. The cigarette smoke was burning your eyes, though. The beer wasn’t cold enough and the company was shit.

“We got a weather front coming up the twenty-five on Tuesday,” Bill Becker, the de facto president, said. “We’ll be meeting it just beyond Fountain Creek at dawn.”

_Weather front_ was code for snow and hail: cocaine and crack. You desperately wanted to ask where beyond Fountain Creek and who they were meeting, but women didn’t ask questions in this charter. The deals were done without their input. You went where you were told.

Claiborne’s thumb rubbed over your knee as Becker ordered his men as points or pick-ups. Claiborne was usually a pointman. You were always on the sidelines. The last time there was a deal, you sat it out in your state-issued Pinto on the side of the road. You’d signaled the perp’s truck to the correct pull-off, though. In the woods surrounding the back road had been a surveillance team taking photos of the truck and the deal.

“Where you want me and my fine-ass bitch?” Claiborne drawled at Becker as he smoothed his palm down your thigh.

You grit your teeth and instantly thought of the butterfly knife in your other boot as Becker replied. You couldn’t make a scene at the table nor could you argue in public. You had to be cool, keep face, and not gut Claiborne like a trout.

Once Becker was done with his declarations, you shoved Claiborne’s hand off your leg and headed to the ladies’ bathroom to complain into your boot. The state had plenty to convict everyone by now. You were so sick of this case. If you ran with the Bandidos much longer, you’d have to fuck Claiborne to keep your place. The very thought turned your stomach.

There came a pointed _“hey”_ from behind you. It was Claiborne. Before you could turn to ask him for a minute, he grabbed your upper arm and yanked you around. You kept yourself from tripping into him with a hand on the short rail of a nearby pool table.

“Don’t you walk away from me,” Claiborne hissed, his grip on your arm like a vice. His breath smelled like stale beer.

“I gotta go.”

“You know what I mean, bitch. You can act all prissy, but I know what girls like you need.”

Your heart kicked into high gear. “What I _need_ is to go to the bathroom and wash your stink off.”

He snarled and backhanded you hard across the cheek. That was going to bruise, you numbly assessed.

“Fuckin’ back-talkin’ little skank!” He jerked you closer. _“Yeah_, let’s go to the bathroom!”

Your cheek didn’t hurt—not yet. The strike was meant to shock you into submission, but you’d gotten worse from better opponents. The one eye watered, though it hardly deter you from trying to get away.

You grabbed the closest billiard ball on the table, swung your loaded fist with all your strength, and cracked Claiborne square in the temple. The dense whump reverberated down your arm. You didn’t care if you gave him brain damage or even killed him. You hoped you did.

His hand loosened around your arm. He pivoted and curled to the side, weakly bleating like a dying goat, but you were prepared for that. You kicked your knee up and caught him on the chin. You felt the harsh give as his front teeth snapped. A spray of saliva and blood peppered your knee.

He hit the dirty floor as 200 pounds of useless meat.

You glared across the tavern at the table of rising Bandidos. _“Anyone else wanna fucking touch me!”_ you bellowed.

The main double-doors to Peg’s banged open before anyone could retaliate. Police yelled their presence as they swarmed. You turned and ran for the bathroom, billiard ball still clenched in your fist. The civilians scrambled behind you; the loud scuffle of shoes, breaking glass, and piercing protests filled the tavern.

The ladies’ bathroom was quieter. You rinsed off the billiard ball and dumped it in the toilet. You didn’t want Internal Affairs to use it as evidence against you, because you had not de-escalated shit. You propped your sprayed knee on the sink rim and washed off.

You didn’t bother drying off, you knocked the faucet lever down and peeked out the door. It appeared as though everyone was busy chasing, arresting, and assessing the scene. You eased out of the bathroom and snuck further down the hallway to the backdoor.

The backdoor’s push bar handle squealed like nails on a chalkboard. Someone would’ve heard that, but it hardly mattered at this point. You got out of the building, the door clanging closed behind you. It squealed again a second later, like someone had opened it after you. You booked it across the lot towards the unlit woods.

For the second time that evening, someone yelled _“hey”_ at your back. It wasn’t safe for you to pause and look, though. You had just hopped over the edge of the blacktop when a bigger body hit your back and strong arms wrapped around your middle. The person—a man—lifted you off the ground and kept walking.

You struggled against his hold, wiggling and kicking out. “Get your fucking hands off me!” you growled.

“Cool it, it’s me,” the man huffed as he battled to hold you.

_Zimmerman._

You slumped in relief, and he let your feet touch the ground. He continued to frog-march you to a dark spot behind the sagging branches of a pine. You both took a breath before he released you. He didn’t step back, though, and you didn’t step forward. His hands rested on your hips.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“I’m fine.”

“I’m gonna have to arrest you to get you back to the station.”

“I know.”

“Ambulance is coming for Claiborne.”

_“Tch_, whatever.” That asshole could rot on the floor for all you cared.

“Where are your keys? I’ll have Ron drive the car down.”

“Front right pocket,” you replied as you fished them out.

Zimmerman took them from you. “That was damn stupid, what you did.”

_“Yeah,”_ you whisper-yelled over your shoulder. “Because getting _raped_ sounds _so much smarter!”_

“No, I mean leaving the table.”

“Claiborne touched me, and I didn’t like it.”

Zimmerman’s grip on your hip tightened as he softly disclosed he didn’t like that either. You closed your eyes against the dark and leaned against his chest with a sigh. In response, his hand slithered around you and pulled you in tight. You put your hand on top of his. He felt so much better than anyone had in a long time.

You murmured, “Detective Zimmerman, you should arrest me now.”

“I’d prefer if you called me Flip.”

“Why? Because if I call you Flip, it means something?”

“No, I’d just like it.”

You sighed. “Just arrest me already, Flip.”

His hands lingered on you as he stepped back to pull out his cuffs. You roughed up your hair and t-shirt a little to look like you’d been running through the woods. You then put your hands behind your back, and the cold metal of handcuffs clapped around your wrists.

Flip walked you to the front of the tavern and deposited you in the back of a patrol car. You recognized his fellow detective, Ron Stallworth, amongst the officers. Flip went to him, and they talked for a moment. Ron glanced in your direction before heading off to where you’d parked the Pinto.

You collapsed against the seat, found a comfortable position for your arms, and stared at the ceiling. It wasn’t long before Flip came back to the car and got in. As he started the engine, he told you he’d drive you around to the back of the precinct so you could skip Processing.

The drive was quiet until he stopped at a red light. You saw him peek at you from the rearview mirror. You met his eyes and held his gaze for a second too long.

“You’re going to get a lot of shit,” Flip said. “But you did well.”

* * *

Claiborne’s backhand made itself known as you waited in an interrogation room. Your cheek angrily throbbed, and you’d just burned your tongue on the coffee Jimmy Creek had brought you. He offered to get you ice for your cheek, but hadn’t returned with it yet.

In the meantime, you took off your wired boot, pulled the insole out to get to the transmitter in the heel, and untaped the tiny microphone. You turned off the device and left it on the table. You fixed the boot and tugged it on once more.

The room was cold. Goosebumps shivered over your arms and legs. Maybe Flip was right, you thought: short cut-offs were a bad idea. The office chair under you was stiff and chilly to the touch.

The door opened without notice and Chief Bridges walked in, Flip trailing after him. Flip handed you a sandwich bag filled with ice and a white t-shirt to wrap it in. Bridges sat across the table, drumming his fingers on the thick case file, and watched you assemble your icepack.

When you put it to your cheek, Bridges said, “You’ve ruined this investigation.”

You knew better than to speak up. He’d taken a chance with you. He put his reputation on the line when he endorsed you for the case. They could’ve used a male officer to infiltrate the Bandidos, but you’d wanted it. You had assured him you could handle it.

“You can’t go back,” Bridges continued. “How am I supposed to send anyone else to them now?”

“We can try from the other side. Impersonate runners from Mexico.”

“And where am I going to find those men, huh? You know any _Mexican_ police officers with the CSPD off the top of your head?”

You glanced at Flip, hoping he’d offer another idea. When he didn’t, you replied, “No, sir.”

Flip remained silent, leaning against the concrete wall with his arms crossed.

Bridges grunted in agreement and opened the file. “What did you get tonight before you coldcocked a suspect?”

“There’s an exchange happening on Tuesday near Fountain Creek.”

“Time?” Bridges asked.

Flip answered, “Bill Becker said dawn.”

Bridges looked at you. “That correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

You briefed Bridges on what you’d heard earlier. Flip contributed when necessary, but otherwise stayed quiet. Though you both agreed the exchange would still happen despite tonight’s incident. Which brought Bridges around to having you recount the actions that led to you assaulting Claiborne. You left out the billiard ball, keeping it vague by simply stating you hit him.

Bridges seemed fed up, but you couldn’t tell with whom. He glared at you for a tense moment before stating you were on administrative leave for the next few days. When you came back, there’d be a full inquiry. You were sure that would include Internal Affairs.

You nodded in acceptance and thanked him, adjusting the icepack on your cheekbone.

“Don’t thank me yet. Rest up and get your stories straight.” He pointed between you and Flip. “See you on Wednesday.”

You opened your mouth to say you didn’t want to miss the drug deal, but thought better of it. If any of the Bandidos saw you around, they’d kill you.

Bridges closed the file and left the interrogation room. It was quiet. Too quiet. You sank in your chair, letting out a breath. If you and Flip played the cards right, you might get away with giving Claiborne a taste of his own awful medicine.

You looked at Flip to find him studying you. Silent as always. He’d done nothing to help you. _Pointless._ He’d just stood there, being tall and handsome. _Purely decorative._

“Thanks for the fucking assist, _Flip.”_ You got to your feet and tossed the icepack at him. “Can’t wait to work with you again.”

You didn’t stick around to see if he caught it. You jerked open the door and stepped into the hush of the hallway. Luckily, it was late. You walked towards the back of the building. You didn’t want anyone to see you slink away.

Like clockwork, you heard hard footsteps behind you. You glanced over your shoulder to find Flip stalking after you. He was glowering, as if you were the one who’d stood there like a chump.

You stopped mid-hallway and turned to him. “You don’t get to be mad at me.”

“I got you out of that shithole with no one knowing what you are.”

“Is that what’s got your panties in a wad: I didn’t express my gratitude _when you did your fucking job?”_

He sputtered, “That’s not what this’s about.”

You pointed towards the interrogation room. “And what about with Bridges, huh? You let me twist in the wind!”

“You were hardly twisting.”

_“Are you kidding?!_ Bridges will never put me on a case—” You threw your hands up. “You know what? Fuck this. I don’t know why I’m even talking to you. You don’t give a shit.”

Flip’s eyes narrowed. _“What.”_

You made a disgusted noise and walked away. “See you on Wednesday, _Detective,”_ you threw over your shoulder.

He came for you then, all darkly offended. You squeaked and bolted down the hall. You didn’t need another bruising. Flip was bigger and broader than Claiborne. Definitely stronger, too. If he got his hands on you, you’d certainly get your ass handed to you.

“Hold up,” he called as he closed the distance with his long legs.

He grabbed the back of your shorts to reined you in. You were about to undo them and run away in only your underwear when he slung you into the dark records room. You tripped into the front counter as he locked the door behind himself. The hallway light coming through the open blinds on the door and its sidelight painted him with stripes of shadow.

“You think I don’t give a shit?” he rhetorically asked as he pointed to himself. “The second that son of a bitch hit you and threatened you, I was out of the car.”

“I can take care of myself.”

He prowled over and fenced you in with his arms. “I didn’t say you couldn’t, but no one touches my girl.”

“I’m not your girl.”

“Would it be so bad, though?”

You knew it wouldn’t be.

You looked at him—really looked at him. His eyes didn’t just hold anger. You saw genuine concern there. He had been scared for you. He feared for your safety. And not because he was leading the case. He actually cared.

“Would it?” he asked and reached up to smooth a gentle fingers over your non-bruised cheek.

You whispered, “No.”

He slowly leaned in, keeping his eyes open to see your reaction. You knew he intended to kiss you. You wet your lips as you glanced at his. They were flushed and full. His black goatee framed them perfectly. You _wanted_ to kiss him.

You closed your eyes and tipped your head back, relaxing for the first touch. When it came, it was soft. Just like his lips. You moved with him, kissing him back, opening your mouth as he did. His tongue glanced off yours, and you tilted your head to get more of him.

As you placed your hands on his waist, he pressed closer. His hand went from cradling your face to sliding into your hair. He deepened the kiss and pushed his tongue against yours. He crowded you against the counter, your breasts mashed against his chest.

And that felt so _good_.

You skimmed your palms around his brawny, muscled frame to clutch at his ass. It was a nice ass, firm enough. You’d like to grab it as he fucked you.

His hand tightened in your hair, and he pulled your head back. You gasped in surprise and stared into his glinting eyes, your cunt fluttering.

“You wanna be my girl?”

You licked his spit off your lips. “Depends.”

“On?”

“The next five minutes.”

“Oh, baby, I can go longer than five minutes.”

“Yeah?” You grinned. “Prove it.”

He sprung on you, ravaging your mouth with soft lips and sharp teeth. His tongue tasted you. He sucked at your bottom lip like it was candy. All you could do was hang on and give as good as you got.

He growled when you nipped a little too hard on his lip. He broke the kiss, grabbed your hips, and easily hoist you onto the counter. The heavy log book hit the floor behind the counter. You spread your legs and reeled him back in to kiss. He put his hands on your ass and dragged you forward until you were flush against him.

You held his angular face and kissed him again. This time you were the ravager. There was the faint taste of blood on his lip and you sucked it off in hunger. You pushed your tongue in his mouth, tasting the fresh coffee with cream he’d recently drunk. You wrapped your arms around him to feel his back muscles undulate underneath his holster and shirt. He kissed you with his whole body.

His hands swept up and down your sides. Until they paused at your ribs. They burned through the thin cotton of your t-shirt. He eased you away, angling you back. You gripped his forearms and then braced yourself on the counter. You didn’t know what he was doing until he ordered you to lie back.

You sprawled over the counter in his long shadow. He cupped your breasts, gave them a warm squeeze. He then smoothed his hands down your torso and rounded over your hips. He pulled you against him, grinding you over the hard swell of his erection. In reply, you rolled your pelvis. The cotton of your underwear clung between your legs, and you realized right there how wet you were.

“How far we going tonight?” he murmured.

You undid your shorts as you stared at him. “All the way.”

“You sure?”

“I’m on the pill.” You hooked your thumbs over the waistband of your underwear. “Fuck me.”

Flip stilled your hands. “Let me.”

He quickly tugged your boots off. His hands lingered on your legs as if he were savoring the feel of you. He guided your clothing down. The counter was cool under your ass as he spread your thighs wide to make a place for himself.

“You’re gonna let me eat this peach tomorrow,” he stated as he stared at your pussy.

“Am I?”

He met your eyes as his hands glided down your inner thighs. “Yeah.”

His thumbs stroked over your slit and spread it. The air was chilled against your wetness. It caressed your clit, made you aware of how sensitive and ready you were.

You didn’t know what to do with your hands. You couldn’t reach him in any substantial way, but you had to touch something. You found the hem of your t-shirt and dragged it up you torso to fist the bunched fabric. You arched your back and whined.

At that, Flip touched your clit with a thumb. Your mouth dropped open as he lazily circled it. You couldn’t stop your hips from rolling. It felt too good, too much of what you needed.

But then he stopped. You gasped his name and pulled at your shirt. He bought his wet thumb to his mouth and sucked your juices off.

He purred, “Tastes as good as I thought.”

He undid his jeans and pushed them out of the way until his cock was free. The dripping tip bumped against the back of your thigh. You propped yourself on an elbow to look, because you couldn’t not. It was thick and veiny and dark pink, and you needed it inside you.

He told you to lie back and relax. You almost scoffed—you were no virgin—but you did lay back anyway. You took a deep breath and let it out, letting your spine melt against the counter.

The spongy tip of his dick trailed up and down your pussy. He teased you with it, rubbing your clit with the silky underside. You bit your lip to keep quiet and angled your pelvis up. He crooned something as he found your opening.

The inward nudge of his cock had you whimpering in need. You slapped a hand over your mouth and closed your eyes as he pushed slowly, inexorably inside. The stretch of penetration was exquisite and powerful. And kept going.

Oh fuck, he was longer than you thought.

He held your hips as he worked that big dick of his in your cunt. You were about to protest, because you couldn’t take any more, when his lower abdomen made contact. You tried to breathe and relax around his cock, but it felt like it was halfway to your stomach. You placed your hands on top of his to center yourself with the silent assurance you could handle it.

_“Shit,”_ he softly panted, sounding pained.

You looked up at him to see his forehead pinched and eyes shut. He felt so far away, and you pulled at his shirt. His eyes were glazed when he opened them. They cleared as he blinked.

You whispered, “Need you closer.”

Flip hauled you up and wrapped an arm around your lower back. The angle change made you cry out. You buried your face in his shirt collar and clutched at the straps of his holster.

He shushed you and kissed your shoulder. “Gotta keep quiet.”

You nodded as you wrapped your legs around him. His free hand went to your ass, and he asked if you were ready. You took a steadying breath before you nodded again.

The drag of his cock pulling out had you holding him tighter. You didn’t want him to go. The plunge of him going deep had your eyes rolling back in their sockets. He felt so right; his cock was sliding against all your nerves.

“I think… I lied,” he groaned as he thrust. “I’m not— Not gonna last.”

The heavy sawing of his hips punched the air right out of you. He forced his cock all the way in your lush cunt over and over. His ground right against your clit. You couldn’t find the words to tell him it didn’t matter. If he just gave you a little more, you were going to come.

You pulled at his holster, urging him to go hard and fast. Your heels dug into his back. Your knee bumped the butt of his gun. You swallowed with a dry throat as you trembled in his arms.

“Give it to me,” you hotly whispered.

He made a choking sound as his grip tightened. He rammed hard, and your eyes went wide. You whimpered an encouraging noise and let your head fall where it wanted.

Flip fucked you with pent-up frenzy. His thick cock pushed you right to the edge. Your body clenched around his length, and you suddenly _seized_. You muffled your rhythmic moans as blistering, rapturous orgasm spread from your pussy to your chest to the back of your head. Your limbs shuddered, and you lost all strength.

Distantly, you heard him curse under his breath. His cock felt huge, too much, as he pumped inside you. He embraced you, his grip tense, as he gave you a handful of near-violent thrusts. He gasped into your shoulder, and you felt him come. Each surge of it hit deep and hot, drenching your still-quivering cunt.

You were so full of him—overwhelmed. You could do nothing but hang onto him and hope he wouldn’t let you go. After a long, delicate moment, he ran his sultry mouth over your neck, his goatee gently abraded your skin. You angled just enough to catch his plump lips in a kiss. You both made a needy sound into it.

“Everything’s gonna be fine, baby,” he softly said at a natural pause. “The reports will show you were justified.”

You nodded. “Okay.”

He kissed you again as his hand roved over your back. You catted against him and hugged him. His softening cock jerked inside you, and he groaned. You grinned against his lips and clenched your pussy around him.

His eyes danced with mirth and renewing lust. “You’re gonna get it when I’m functional again.”

“Sounds promising.” You rubbed your nose against his. “Your place or mine?”

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](https://the-wayward-rose.tumblr.com)


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